PS 3523 
.E856 
H4 
1899 
Copy 1 



t^^- 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. Copyright No. 

Shelf..£li.^V\4 

m5 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



HEART ECHOES 



BY 



/ 

GEORGE EDWARD LEWIS. 



ILLUSTRATED BY 



MARIE JEWELL CLARK. 



'Go thou forth; and fortune play upon thy prosperous he 






PRESS OF 

TRADESMAN COMPANY. 

Grand Rapids. Mich. 



e sr-, 



"3 



TWO COPIES BECE-i V x.^. 

Library of Congressj 
Office f th« 

Register of Copyrights. 






47638 

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year I8S)fi. by George Edward 
Lewis, in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



SECOND COP^ 




GEORGE EDWARD LEWIS. 



"Poetry is itself ;i thing of God. He made his prophets poets; and the 
more we feel of poesy do we lieeome like tJod in love and power." 



Biodf^Pbtcal Preface. 



THE AUTHOR of " Heart Echoes " is a native of Michigan. His 
grandfather, James Otto Lewis, was a poet and artist and a friend 
of the early pioneers of Michigan, Louis and Antoine Campau and 
others. He accompanied General Lewis Cass on the "birch bark canoe 
trip," famous in history, and on his return published and illustrated, in 
1834, "The American Aboriginal Portfolio," containing pictures and 
sketches of some forty chieftains. His son, William, father of George 
Edward, journeyed through all the states in the Union, meeting with 
both success and misfortune, at last settling down with his good wife to 
rear their large family of children in the northern part of his native 
State, Michigan, which was then a region wild. Here the childhood 
and youth of George Edward were spent among the nestling hills cov- 
ered with forests and farms, roaming through the dark pines, fishing in 
the bough-hidden streams, picking blueberries on the plains, studying 
Nature at her best, toiling on the farm, working in the lumber camp, 
but ever weaving into rhyme the pictures of Nature's own which, with 
later ones redolent of his city life, have been gathered into "Heart 
Echoes," with the wish that it may help others to while away a leisure 
hour. M. J. C. 



£otitctit$. 



PAGE 

A Studio, ------- jy 

The Closing Century and Dawn of the Twentieth, - - 25 

'Tis Only a Rose, - - - _ _ . ,3 
This Country of Ours, - - - - . -35 

The Flag of Columbia, ------ 29 

My Faithless Harp, ----- . ^^ 

Bartholdi Statue, ------ ^^ 

Polished Originals, ----- _ - ^y 

A Mountain Romance, -----. 49 

To the Star, ""'"'"" 59 

Michigan's Capitol, ---__- gj 

Around Little Traverse Bay, - - - - - 67 

Fife Lake, ------- y. 

The Robin's First Song, ----- . y^ 

The Birch Tree, ------ yg 

The Country Schoolhouse, ------ 80 

We Drank From the Same Dipper Then, . - . g^ 



Mary Maxwell, ------- 88 

The Humblest Birth, ------ g2 

The City on the Grand, ------ gy 

The Old Parish Church, ----- jqj 

Her Spirit Still Lives, ----__ jq2 

There Is a Time, ----._ jq^ 

Autumn Days, ------_ jq^ 

Morning, -----._ jQg 

The Springtime, - - - - - - -in 

The Tragedy of Mackinac Island, - - - - 115 

Reflection, -------- 121 

Along the Looking Glass, - - - - . ^23 

The Bridal Eve, ------- J26 

Contentment ------- J29 

From Saint-Cloud to Malmaison, ----- ^^j 

The Home of My Youth, - - - - - 135 

Our Lives Are Like Our Quiet Walks, - - - - j^g 

Her Sister, ------- j^q 

The Brook and the Child, ------ j^^ 

The Dream Maiden, ------ j^^ 

Dreamland, -------- j^y 

Memories of Charlevoix, - - - - - 151 

Our Throne, -----._ j^^ 

The Picture of a Flower, ----- j^^ 

Roll Call of Poets, ------- 156 

The River Road, - - - - - - 159 



PAGE 

The Old Wheel and the New, . . . . . jQq 

I Have Only One Wish to Make, . . . - 163 

October Days, _.--..- jgg 

"The Banjo's Strain," ------ 167 

Our Public Schools, . - - - - i5g 

The Old Bard, ------- 173 

The Fall of the Pueblo Nation, ----- J76 

" Heart Echoes," ----- jgj 



Tllusfrations. 



PAGE 

Portrait of Author, - - - - - - - 6 -^ 

The Old Homestead at Eventide, - - - - 16^ 

A Scene Upon the Rhine, - - - - - -IS*^ 

An Old Mill, ------- 20^ 

Autumn by the Lake, - - - - - - 22 ^ 

Type of the Twentieth Century, - - - - 24 — 

The Capitol at Washington, - - - - - 34^' 

The Flag of Columbia, - - - - - - 381^ 

Statue of Liberty, - - - - - - -44** 

Among the Mountains, - - - - - 48 "^ 

Michigan's Capitol, - - - - - 6o"** 

C. A. Gower's Residence, Lansing, - - - - 64 *" 

Imperial Hotel, Petoskey, ------ 66'^ 

A Steamer on the Ba}-, - - - - - - 68*^ 

Fishing in the Stream, - - - - - - 70 -^ 

Fife Lake, - - - - - - - 72^ 



The Robin's First Song, ------ yg^ 

The Robin's Last Song, - - - - - 77-^ 

Birch Trees, - - - - - - -78-" 

The City of Grand Rapids, ----- g5-. 

An Old English Church, - - - - _ 100— 

Autumn Days, - ------ 106 — 

Springtime, - - - - - - - -no" 

The Grand, Mackinac Island, ----- ^^ — 

The Looking Glass, ------ 122"" 

A Rustic Bridge, -__--_ 130 — 

A Quiet Walk, - - - - - - - 138 -- 

The Brook, -._--.- j^2 — 

Charlevoix, the Beautiful, ------ 150 — 

A Quiet Nook, ------- 152- 

The River Road, ------- 158 " 

October Days, ------ jQ^ 

The Old Bard, - - - - - - - 172 - 




''The luuiusUad of iiiv childhood, the sliade of olhor doy. 



B Studio. 



[Dedicated to Marie Jewell Clark. 



I sit this summer morning 

Within a quiet room 
Filled up with varied pictures 

Of love and joy and gloom. 

Around are masterpieces 
From far across the sea 

Caught by a skillful pencil, 
Transfigured here for me. 

Here is a modern picture, 
Here one of olden time: 

One shows the winding Arno 
And one the castled Rhine. 

This picture comes from Venice — 

We see it at a glance — 
And here is one from Holland 

And this one came from France. 




'And one tlie castled Rhine. 



Thei'e are yellow roses, 

Enough a vase to fill, 
And here are velvet meadows 

And there a ruined mill. 

See, here the cows are drinking 
From a cool and lowly stream 

Bordered with crimson maples 
Ablaze with autumn's sheen. 

But this one tho' more sombre 
Still more attracts my eye, 

With gentle sloping meadows. 
With evening painted sky. 

I see in this dear picture, 
As deep and long I gaze, 

The homestead of my childhood. 
The shade of other davs. 



I hear my father's whistle. 
Again the night winds moan: 

I see my darling mother 

Within that dear old home. 




'And til ere a ruined miii." 



But another loves this picture, 
That true and sombre shade, 

And often gazes fondly — 
She who that picture niade. 

The reason why she loves it 
This calm and peaceful scene 

Because it is the symbol 
And echo of a dream. 

The winding road leads westward. 

The skies and forest blend 
And join with one another 

To reach some peaceful end. 

And who knows what that artist 
Can read between the lines 

Untold with brush and pencil 
In pictures or in rhymes? 

Such hearts have noble feelings, 
Sublime, serene and dear. 

Who can with earthly fingers 
Transcribe such beauty here. 




"See here Ihe cows are driuking from a cool and lowly sij-< 



While gazing on this picture — 
The leaves and grasses green- 

We read a quiet undertone 
That few have ever seen. 

Oh, dumb the pen of poets 
Confined in solemn hush 

And words are idle dreamers 
Beside the artist's brush. 

And tho' the artist's pencil 
Transcends the poet's art 

Yet neither pen or pencil 
Reveals the inmost heart. 





Mdvin Jewell Clarl;. 
The daicn of the twentietli century. 



Cbc Closing Century and Dawn of tbe Cwentietb 



They soon shall live in history, 

Those rapid passing years 
That hlled this busy centnry 

With all its toils and tears; 
Soon time with magic fingers 

Shall heap the moulding clay 
Above its fallen ruins 

And slowly sink away. 

But can we leave in silence 

This grand old centur}' here, 
The period of our fathers 

And to our children dear? 
It gave us every pleasure, 

The hours of happy health, 
And heaped beside our doorway 

Great shining hoards of wealth. 



Come, let us travel backward 
With the wrinkled, hoary sage 

And view the radiant pictures 
That live on history's page: 

Amid the virgin forest 

A rugged babe was born; 

'Twas softly dressed in doeskin 
And reared on yellow corn. 

And in those same dark forests 

Dwelt many a stranger man; 
To crush this hardy infant 

They summoned every plan. 
In spite of warriors' cunning 

He up to childhood sprung 
And garnered woodsy flowers 

When the century was young. 

He hastened into manhood 

And threw the flowers down 
And seized a battered hammer 

To shape his native town; 
He chose a mammoth boulder 

Of prairie, lake and trees. 
Of rock and wave-kissed islands 

Abloom with sun and breeze. 



He wiped away the mildew 

And smoothed the corners tough 
And shaped the future figure 

Of our nation in the rough; 
He laid the fading Redman 

Down to eternal rest 
Far in his native forest, 

With his quiver on his breast. 

Through winter and through summer 

His hammer clove the air, 
And as each blow rebounded 

The margin was more fair; 
He drained the muddy morass, 

Nations left at his command; 
They never more shall trespass 

Our free, unsullied land. 

The village turns to city. 

The country's changed to town; 
Large steamers plow the rivers 

As his hammer thunders down: 
Through sunshine and in shadow 

His ponderous blows do fall 
And leave at last a nation 

That towers over all. 

27 



We love the grand old sculptor 

Whose heart so soon must break, 
Who made this gallant Union 

For all his children's sake; 
And when his head is covered 

And another takes his place 
May each soul prove as noble 

Through all the human race. 

The sculptor is the century, 

His blows the falling years 
That dressed the mighty boulder 

On all its wild frontiers; 
He smoothed the jagged mountain 

And tilled the barren plain 
And left behind him waving 

Great fields of golden grain. 

The old sculptor is dying 

And by his patient bed 
W^e lean and softly listen 

The words in life he said: 
" Go forth to fields of battle 

With victory in your breast, 
So every star may twinkle 

In the banner of the West. 



"And, farmers, plow your meadows 

And, statesmen, use your brain, 
And all who claim this countr}' 

Help garner in its grain; 
If faithful are the reapers 

A prize each one shall hold 
Who values home and country 

More precious yet than gold. 

"In time man bridles lightning 

And drives his steed afar: 
His iron hoofs go pounding 

Beneath the rattling car. 
He drives him up the mountain 

And o'er the ocean's breast — 
Around the world he travels 

And never sighs for rest. 

"And friend and friend converse 

Though many miles apart; 
Soft tears fall in affection. 

Heart knows another heart; 
Sweet tales the Past related 

And songs the dead have sung 
We hear today repeated 

By Lightning's wizard tongue. 



"The ship that rode the billow 

According to the wind, 
Sometimes in rapid movement 

And often far behind, 
Has conquered wind and weather 

Without a sail or mast, 
Now rides in grace and beauty 

Through calm and wind and blast. 

"The tired, footsore traveler 

The path no longer feels, 
But sits on velvet cushions, 

Borne off on rapid wheels; 
Take all this world's improvements. 

Invention, love and lore. 
Through all the backward ages, 

What century hath done more?" 

So close the Book of Ages 

Yet keep it in our view 
Now raise the sable curtain 

And welcome in the new 
With shout and laugh and glory 

To cheer the famous morn; 
May every soul be ready 

When the banner year is born. 



And in its fair white forehead 

May noble thoughts arise 
To lead us bravely onward 

In journeys true and wise, 
And may our magic fingers 

And hearts of purer mould 
Aspire to greater labors 

Than all the Past has told. 

May every purpose noble be 

And loyal every course 
And above our great forefathers 

Arise our righteous laws; 
We want no idle dreamer 

To lead us through the strife, 
But a young and faithful doer 

Holding country dear as life. 

We have before our vision 

The portrait of a child 
With a grand and brilliant future, 

So brave and yet so mild, 
And in his quiet bosom 

From stain of passion free 
Is the type of passing actions 

In the century 3'et to be. 



Fair child, behold that tower 

That lives in freedom's air; 
It took sad, patient hours 

To plant those columns there; 
'Tis built of blood and sorrow, 

Many a sad, deserted home, 
And life and love of heroes 

Shine from its massive dome. 

But you must build one greater, 

Without carnage, strife or groan, 
And Freedom be the motto 

'Graved on the corner stone; 
In all historic ages, 

As transient hours flee. 
May your greatness live forever 

In the centuries yet to be. 



(k^\ 




'Ci$ Only a Rose. 



'Tis only a rose, withered and faded, 

Its beauty has fled with the time and the tide; 

Its ordor for rankness grim Time has traded, 

But it once decked the breast of my bhishing bride. 

On our wedding eve both Nature did cherish, 

'Neath trophies and robes her dear bosom did heave; 

But 'neath the stroke of the Harvester both aHke perished, 
And I keep it in memory of our wedding-eve. 



33 






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'■Ho'v dear to my heart is this country of ours.'''' 



Cbt$ Country of Ours. 



How dear to my heart is this country of ours! 

Protected by love and garnished with flowers, 

She arises to-night the highest in fame; 

Not a cloud o'er her brow, not a blot on her name — 

I love every acre from East unto West, 

The North and the South are as fair as the rest. 

I love the bright East where the Puritans trod 

And knelt on the Sabbath to worship their God; 

Oh, Ocean Atlantic, in rolling you boast 

Of hamlets and cities that border thy coast; 

In pride thy blue waves kiss the sands of the West 

As our rivers refresh thy bosom of rest. 

Oh, stately old Boston, abreast with the tide, 

While the waves of the moon o'er thy mansions do ride; 

As in fancy I wander there arises to me 

The city of Charleston that stands by the sea; 

The hills of Columbia and the blue waters meet. 

As the spirits unite when our hearts are complete. 



I love the dear South where lemons do grow 
And the odor of orange daily falls from the bio'; 
Where gay mocking birds are ever in tune 
And the flowers of March are the blossoms of June; 
Where the broad Mississippi rolls down to the sea 
Thro' a land just as pure as her waters are free. 

I love the great West with its prairies so wide, 

The hunter's delight and the Indian's pride; 

Where the Yellowstone flows from dark caves far away, 

Thro' the night of the forest to the prairie of day; 

Wliere the peaceful Pacific on its shimmering breast 

Bears the mariner's barque sailing into the west. 

I love the lone North, the rock and the vine, 

The deep bay of cedars, the whispering pine, 

The crimson hedged lake, the green bordered rill. 

The moss covered valle}^ the leaf buried hill 

Where trails the wild myrtle and adder tongues grow. 

Oh, how can you blame me for loving it so? 

The plains are all covered with bushes and flowers. 

The thrush and the robin sing sweet in their bowers; 

The green ever tender, the brake curleth low, 

The trailing arbutus blooms under the snow; 

The barefooted boys in cold brooklets play, 

Where the trout and the grayling are restless as they. 



On the banks of a lake so calm and so clear 
The maples are yellow its margin so near; 
The wanderer sits on Traverse Bay shore 
And lists to the lake in its September roar; 
The lapsing waves splash close, close by his feet. 
Oil. blest be my country so tranquil and sweet. 





Master Earl Clarence Lewis. 
' The starry flag that floats ahtn't 
Is iovc;d by one and al/.'" 



Cbe Flag of Columbia* 



The starry flag that floats above 

Is loved by one and all, 
The rich and great from every state 

And they of lowly call. 
The woods were heavy, damp and darl> 

Sad closed the stormy day, 
When 'mid the tall and rocking trees 

A hero knelt to pray: 

'Our Father, Thou hast made men free 

In other lands and days; 
If Thou wilt hear our voice 

We shall give Thee all the praise. 
We soon shall hold aloft a sign 

To follow day and night 
Until we gain the victory 

Or perish in the fight. 

39 



" A piece of soil we truly love 

Is named for every star; 
We read the meaning o'er our hearth, 

We prove the rest in war. 
We shall hold our banner in our hand. 

While dawns the nation's birth, 
And look across a burdened land 

WHiere grape shot plows the earth. 

" No spirit cheers the youth who falls 

Along his native stream; 
No ensign marks our council halls 

W^here greatest statesmen dream;" 
And then our noble Washington 

The old world much amazed 
When the Stars and Stripes, red, white and blue, 

In Freedom's cause was raised. 

The soldiers bore it through the fight, 

They loved its starry breast; 
It climbed the hill at Bunker, 

It conquered all the West; 
It floats above the noble dead 

That gazed on it and smiled. 
For Independence gave up earth, 

Then passed it to his child. 



No tongue can tell where it shall wave, 

So distant floats it now. 
Oh, who can guess how many gems 

Shall crown the banner's brow; 
It floats among united hills, 

It binds us true and fast; 
It waved at old Manila Bay, 

It streamed from Dewey's mast. 

But this we know, where'er they are, 

No nation looks with scorn. 
For not an idle moment marked 

The da}' that flag was born. 
It floats around the chapel arch 

Where aged parsons pray; 
It floats above the belfry tower 

Where merry children play. 

The stripes are as our fathers made, 

Their rows we would not mar. 
And as we add a noble state 

We add a brilliant star 
Too noble for the dust to stain, 

And ah! too pure and free 
To ever mould in prison walls 

Bound down by lock and key. 



The old flag floats in every state, 

Across the sea it flies, 
Held by the arm of Freedom, 

Transplanted in the skies; 
They who bear it on foreign shores 

Among the noble slain 
Are strong and bold as they march on 

That justice still may reign. 

Emblems on all other flags, 

The notches and the bars, 
Hang low, submissive and in fear 

Beneath the Stripes and Stars. 
Columbia! oh, the land of all, 

We love each hill and dell, 
May our people never cease to praise 

The flag we love so well. 




my Taitble$$ fyarp. 



Ah, Music, twin of inner man, 

Ancestor of all song I 
Could I but hear my harp vibrate 

That has been silent long. 

And as I spoke my thirsty ear 

Drank its refreshing strain; 
Each word and deed, both good and bad, 

It brought to mind again. 

Oh, faithless harp and blighted tune 
That cheered me in my youth, 

If thou would cheer me in old age 
Thou must not tell the truth. 

Can the mirror hanging on the wall 

Reflect our smiles for tears, 
Or show a face of youth and bloom 

For wrinkles and for years? 

Ah, no, and thus my harp's sweet voice 

Is locked in its proud heart; 
It could not sing of perfect life 

That had a bitter part. 

43 




'A beautiful gift in this country rve hax 



Bartboldi Statue. 



A beautiful gift in this country have we 

From our sister republic just over the sea, 

And our gratitude flows frona each habitation 

To the bosom of those who have honored our Nation: 

Great Goddess of Liberty on the rim of the sea 

In the ha\en that leads to the Land of the Free; 

A type of our union on thy brow we behold 

When the sunset has crowned it with crimson and gold. 

Columbia is there representing our land; 

As unwilling we wander she gives us her hand; 

Her lips seem to say, ''Whene'er you return, 

The red lamp of welcome bright as ever shall burn." 

And when we have walked on another strange shore 
And return to this beautiful haven once more, 
She welcomes us back with her outstretching arm 
And whispers, "Come in, I will shield thee from harm.' 



Just as patient she waits for our ships to return, 
Just as genial in peace her red torch does burn, 
She's as dauntless in war, just as noble and shrewd; 
She stands warning all nations to "never intrude." 

When the dark pall of night o'er the waves settles down 
The harbor is lit b\' the stars of her crown, 
And the sailor once lost in the trough of the sea 
Is ushered by light to the Home of the Free. 

In sunshine and shade, through trials and tears, 
As the centuries cast their small handful of years, 
Though bloodstained and weary be Columbia's fair brow, 
Through all may this statue be graceful as now. 

No pen can e'er reach it nor flattery charm 

A wrong smile on thy lips or false gift from thy arm. 

But undaunted and brave be the figure of thee 

In the haven that leads to the Land of the Free. 

Suggested by Mrs. Loraiue Immen. 




Polished Oriditials* 



There grew a wealtli of iron 

Under a bed of cla}', 
In the bosom of a mountain 

Far from the light of day. 

The miner has found the iron, 
The furnace has done its part. 

The smith has tempered the metal 
That slept in the mountain's heart. 

It is shaped to nimble fingers 
And placed in a stately tower 

O'er a white and lettered dial 
To show each passing hour. 

In a wild untutored bosom. 

Mingled with right and wrong, 

Far from the gaze of. mortals, 

There slumbered the words of song! 

But the miner-printer has found it, 
The type has done its part: 

Now the whole world reads the titles 
That slept in the poet's heart. 




Where tJte brooks zvash tin rocks and the mountaineers drearn. 



J1 mountain Romance. 



In a far-away state where the gray eagles scream, 
Where brooks wash the rocks and the mountanieers dream, 
A cabin once stood on the fah^ mountain side, 
Where sycamores grew in the height of their pride. 

Around this old cabin two small children played, 
A beautiful boy and a neighbor's sweet maid; 
'Mong caves and the cliffs they playei without fears 
And Time touched them light as he measured their years. 

Far over the vale round the gray mountain's horn 
Dwelt a rich haughty farmer with sections of corn. 
He had only one sou, who loved this sweet maid 
That round tUe old cabin in sum.nier-time plaved. 

49 



At twenty both loved the same little girl, 

Whose eyes shone as bright as a Galilee pearl; 

Each fondly adored her alone in the wild, 

The same gentle lass they had known since a child. 

The maiden was kind as a maiden could be, 
With a breast full of love deep and pure as the sea; 
She knew how to choose from Nature's own heart, 
But knew not the feelings of manhood apart. 

The son of the rich man very often would stray 
To the home of the maiden that stood far away 
Where the low shady ash and the red sumac grew 
Around the old cabin half hidden from view. 

He would tell her sweet stories of valor and lore. 
Of maidens and lovers he had read of before. 
Of soldiers and sailors, of battle and strife, 
But never once uttered the sweetness of wife. 

The maiden she looked at his visage so fair — 
His azure blue eyes and heavy dark hair; 
As she looked at the skies so majestic above 
So she looked in his face in wonder, not love. 



But when the still shade of evening stole down 
And spread out her curtain so somber and brown 
The mountaineer's boy sweet tales would relate 
To the maid who awaited his step at the gate. 

They talked of the birds and their own mountain flowers, 

The buzzing of bees and the passing of hours; 

They talked till the stars shone dimly above, 

Then alone in the darkness they whispered their love. 

Not alone, for a villain near by them had laid; 
Like a viper he crouched with pistol and blade 
And trembling awaited for the lovers to part 
So the sword in his hand might rust in a heart. 

The son of the rich man was concealed by the road 
Where the other must pass to his humble abode, 
And Jealousy drove a wild thought in his breast — 
Till he gained the fair maiden he never could rest. 

The sky it grows cloudy, the moon sinks from sight, 
The murmuring lovers then whisper goodnight; 
The mountaineer's son then travels the road 
That leads o'er the hill to his father's abode. 



But ere he has walked very far on his way 
A villain confronts him and holds him at bay: 
He makes a wild lunge at the mountaineer's heart; 
But Fate bars the blow and that bosom apart. 

Oh, could you have seen the bright flash of his eye 

As he looked on the forest, the mountain and sky. 

You would have known in a moment, as it glanced above. 

That conquer he would — he was fighting for love. 

He grappled the villain and downed him at length, 
Placed his knee on his breast with his ponderous strength; 
Then blow after blow — soon lifeless he lay; 
Then the mountaineer stole to his cabin away. 

Next morning the sheriffs in marshal array 

Surrounded the cabin, took William away 

To a far-away prison across the great plain. 

With a sentence for life — "wear the ball and the chain." 

In darkness for ages the weary years pass; 
Oh, what would he give to see one blade of grass. 
Take a look at the damsel he used to adore; 
'Twould be heaven to see the old cabin once more. 



The winters pass by and tlie beauties of May 
Till twenty long years haye gone to decay; 
The children all flock to the edge of the town — 
Old autumn has come and the chestnuts are brown. 

All alone and in prison, in secret and strife, 
W'itli a sentence that reads, "just as long as your life," 
Sits the poor mountaineer all haggard and pale, 
While his Mazie grows old as she weeps by the vale. 

One eve as December spread out her sad gloom, 
With his viol in his lap which was always in tune, 
Again and again it repeats words of truth. 
And in them he saw the sweet visions of youth. 

It alone had consoled all his sorrow and tears; 

Its voice had called back his earlier years; 

Many times had he sank to his sad, pensive rest, 

While the old-fashioned fiddle to his bosom was pressed. 

And to-night as he sat so weary and lone 

His viol repeated the sweetness of home; 

It brought tears of repentance from the soul of his eyes 

Like a shower of rain as it falls from the skies. 



He had heard that the Governor of the state could play well 

And make any fiddle its sweet music tell: 

So at last he resolved he would write at his best 

And send the old fiddle to tell him the rest. 

The Governor was idle, his fire was bright, 
His clerks were all gone, it was late in the night; 
He was partially drowsy, when before him he spied 
A coffin-shaped package ver}' awkwardly tied. 

He tore off the wrapper and to his delight 
An old-fashioned fiddle was ushered in sight; 
And a poorly scrawled note lay under the chords; 
He walked to the light and he read these sad words: 

" I am sorry, Sir Governor, that I killed that poor man; 

I have always repented as much as I can: 

I was young and hot-headed and sorely afraid 

Of the look in his face and the flash of his blade. 

•'I meant not to kill him, I never once dreamed 
He would die from those blows, so lightly they seemed, 
But some wild, mad passion which was fighting inside 
Added strength to the blows else he never would died. 



" But if you'll let uie go back to the cliffs and the caves 
Where the mountains are tall and the sycamore waves, 
Far away from this prison that stands on the plain, 
I never will harm anybody again. 

" My parents are old and now need me there; 
The maid of ni}' choice has given them care, 
And lists for my step and knock at the door. 
That strangers oft tell her will echo no more. 

" I have heard you could play by note and by ear 
As beautiful strains as ever we hear: 
So I'll send my old fiddle along with the note — 
Let the song of my heart freely gush from its throat. 

"It is old like myself. I made it one day 
When the flowers were in bloom in the sweetness of May; 
The breath of the mountains was breathed on its strain; 
With a touch of the finger it echoes again. 

"It played to my sweetheart in fair harvest-time 
The love of my bosom in crudest of rhyme; 
And father and mother laughed loud in their joy 
At the untutored skill of the poor mountain boy. 



" If you don't understand my meaning full soon 
Put the viol in position — it is always in tune — 
And draw the old bow o'er its sensitive breast — 
In the sweetest of language it will tell you the rest." 

There were tears in the eyes of the Governor so keen 
And a look in his face that seldom w^as seen, 
A cloud o'er his brow, a lump in his throat, 
A throb in his heart as he finished the note. 

He took the old fiddle, on the grate placed his feet, 
And touched the old strings and they vibrated sweet: 
For the Governor was once but a poor mountain boy 
And its echoing voices they filled him with joy. 

He saw the old cabin and the sky overhead. 
The daisies they bloomed and the sumac was red; 
The birds loudly chirped in the joy of their tune — 
The viol showed the mountains from June until June. 

Now he sits with the boy at the feet of the maid 
While he plays to his love in the summer-night shade; 
Then he strays thro' the woods in barefooted flight 
And gathers the berries from morning till night. 

56 



In wintt-r he sits by tht logwood fire, 
And smiles at the tunes as he plays to his sire; 
In a musical rhyme he follows the boy 
Thro' all of his beautiful pastures of joy. 

While the old fiddle talked all its beautiful tune 
And showed him the mountains froni June until June 
There stole one small strain more pure than the rest 
From the soul of the chords to the Governor's breast. 

The music then ceased — it haci "told him the rest." 

In the fair tone of voice the richest and best, 

And the gem that had given the Governor great joy 

Had been caught from the heart of the poor mountain boy. 

Then the Governor arose and sent for the boy, 
\\'ho received the great message with wonderful joy; 
And ere many days had traveled them o'er 
The mountaineer stood at the Governor's door. 

He saw the old viol in a favorite place, 
Anci he read the kind smile in the Governor's face, 
And he felt an old spirit that had thrilled in his youth 
And he whispered, " Dear Governor, did it tell you the 
truth? " 



"Yes, sir, it has told, in the purest of tale, 
All the beautiful past from mountain to vale; 
From the source of its heart, in one lovely strain, 
It has said, ' You may go to the mountains again.' " 

"Thank God for this instrument I made in my youth! 

Thank God for a leader who listens to truth!" 

The prisoner exclaimed, amid his alarms. 

Then around the great Governor threw both of his arms. 

" You may go to your home — take the fiddle with you. 
Let it lean on your breast, it is perfect and true. 
Go back to the mountains, and never more stray 
From the maid of your youth and thy parents so gray." 

One press of the hand and the prisoner was gone. 
The Governor sat in his office alone; 
Now the viol's sweet chords lend a beautiful strain 
As it breathes the pure air of the mountains again. 




Co Cbe Star. 

Oh, brilliant star to shine 

So high up in your sphere, 
Thou helps me to incline 

To Christ my wayward ear. 
Could mv soul be as pure 

As the sky where thou doth dwell, 
I then could feel quite sure 

My lifetime would be well. 

Your twinkling pale beam 

Lights a land that I know not, 
A feeble sparkling stream 

Of youth that I forgot. 
Oh. when my last life's sand 

Is sparkling in the glass. 
By my Master's kind command 

To thee on white wings may I pass. 



Itlicbigan's Capitol. 



There stands a graceful city that Grand River does divide 
And among the many steeples one looks aloft in pride 
To the Capitol's tall tower that arises firm and great 
And speaks in benediction as the mother of the state. 

I climbed the winding stairway among a noisy crowd 
That shouted through the corridors with accents free and 

loud: 
High in the massive dome I stood, and a purer love in 

creased 
As I gazed upon the gravel that wandered to the East; 

And as I gaze more steady in fancy I see now 
The capitol at Washington that crowns Columbia's brow; 
And many are the sights of fame and many the tears of woe 
As on the Eastern journey our people come and go. 

Another road leads southward where shines a scorching 

sun 
And sings the thrilling mockingbird when labors all are 

done; 
And once upon this roadway there marched a massive line 
Of men with noble purpose in youth and hearty prime. 



The clerk laid down his pencil, the farmer left his hoe,- 
With love and might and gift of right to quell our brethren 

foe: 
And legions after legions then marched this gravel o'er, 
And some came back with victory and some came back no 

more. 

Our Michigan was strong in war and stood in grand array; 

Full well the Southron soldier knew 'twould be no chil- 
dren's play: 

Like mountain eagles forth they dashed, tore Southron 
banners down 

And picked the deathly laurels to strew their native town. 

How dear to those their city, how pure the country air, 
For floods of blood have saved it from ruin and despair; 
And those that sleep so far away where Southron waters 

pour 
We shall cover them with flowers and love forevermore. 

Another road of somber shade leads to the distant West, 
W'here men all worn with cares of life go forth to quiet 

rest; 
They cross the tranquil prairie and by the mountains dream. 
They gaze upon the landscape and linger by the stream. 



Who would not love to wander far o'er the Western sphere, 
Where skip in pride o'er the divide the antelope and 

deer? 
Oh, tall and ragged mountain and oh, deep gorge and glen, 
You hold in mvstic wonder the minds of able men. 

Another road strays northward, where mossy lowland lies, 
Where flow the icy brooklets through the Indian's paradise. 
The trees are trimmed in beauty by Nature's magic palm, 
The lakes in peace do slumber with bosom soft and calm. 

Here snow falls deep in winter and sleighbells loudly ring 
When o'er the route men gayly shout from fall till early 

spring; 
And as the lily decks the woods the farmers deck the hills. 
And smoke does rise up to the skies from many scattered 

mills. 

And o'er this road the farmers come in blessed harvest time 
With golden sheaves and yellow corn and fruit from tree 

and vine; 
Unto our college come their sons as young and brave as 

they 
When first they hewed the yellow oak or plowed the virgin 

clay. 

63 




C. A. Ginvers'' Residence. 

And near our stately capitol within its massive shade 
Does stand a noble statue that some gifted sculptor made; 
But more gifted than that sculptor and twice beloved and 

dear 
Is the true, devoted statesman he has carved in marble here 

That hero looked beyond the toil with hopes serene and 

great; 
While he loved his home and nation he idolized his state; 
He smiled upon the cities and rural homes of rest 
And for the gallant soldier boy soft heaved his tender breast. 



64 



While gazing in his visage our eyes we can't control, 
For the love of state and country liows from our inner soul: 
Each message that is chiseled is earnest, true and just: 
Thev echo through the ages while he moulders in the dust. 

The sire and his children through all the future years 
Will look with admiration and turn away in tears. 
Oh. Blair, so true and gallant! No pen can ever praise 
The man who gave his labor to make our peaceful days. 

There are fair and pleasant mansions around the stately 

square 
Filled with those who labored to plant those pillars there; 
And may the happy children be true and strong of mind 
And take the high positions their parents leave behind. 

Oh, fair, fair is the city and silent is the stream 

That thrills the pulse of statesman and paints the poet's 

dream. 
Mav \outh and charming maiden feel noble, wise and great 
When falls the benediction from the mother of the state. 




Jlrcund Cittic Craverse Bay. 



I know a pretty city on a bay not far away, 
Petoskey fair and quiet, the travelers always say: 
Around its shores at midnight we hear the shout of mirth 
And close by, almost, a river arises from the earth. 

There strays the pleasure seeker from office, store and 

school, 
To breathe the cleansing breezes and drink its waters cool; 
Here rich and noble people from many mansions stray 
To spend in Nature's bosom the sultry summer day. 

There mighty pine are tossing and cool is the cedar shade 
And straight the brown old tamarack and all is Nature 

made; 
How loath we are in leaving when autumn settles gray 
O'er the crimson hills that shelter Petoskey on the bay. 





' The bay is so majestic in soft and quiet rest. 



The bav is so majestic in soft and quiet rest 

And kissed by golden sunbeams that come there from the 

west: 
And man\' brooklets empty into its waters clear, 
Where swims the duck so graceful and drinks tlie nimble 

deer. 

Around this pretty city is a wilderness of joy 
For man of age and reason and little maid or boy; 
The hunter lights his fire, the fisher baits his hook. 
There sit the happv lovers and watch the flowing brook. 

And nestled on the bay where sinks the golden sun between 
Charlevoix and Harbor Point Ba}' View is easy seen, 
Where men and women gather in Nature's cool retreat 
In the auditorium to listen to lectures rare and sweet; 

And there on Sabbath mornings their sacred voices blend, 

When every leaf around them nods a soft amen. 

Oh, lecturers so welcome and ministers so kind, 

May all who hear your voices some golden lesson hnd. 

Some wander thro' the forest until the day is spent, 
Then in a moisty valley they pitch their little tent; 
And just as day is breaking the first May morning beam 
Behold the early tourist is fishing in the stream. 




'■Behold the early touidst is fishing in the stream.^'' 



^^'llo would not call this pastime to play with Nature-s 

child 
Through all the woodsy valleys in pleasures strange and 

wild, 
To follow up the river as curves it in and out, 
To pick the fat young partridge and fry the speckleti trout? 

A faithful child of Nature could never wander there, 
Behold its woods and waters so placid and so fair, 
But some deep inspiration does thrill him night and day 
Which shows a living picture of summer cities on the bay. 



<S',^^ 





"Ho7v ker re flection paints our peaceful lake.'''' 



Fife Cake. 

How pure and fair doth seem the azure sky, 

How soft the breezes our summer blossoms shake, 

How easy floats the moon 'mid planets high, 
How her reflection paints our peaceful lake. 

Oh. could our lives now mixed with smiles and tears 
Turn back to rosy moments when a boy 

And tread again the paths of other years 

As those moonbeams and dance o'er waves of joy. 

Could we but leave our cares and trials all 
And wander off in joy and endless ease 

And join our pleasure with the magic foam 
To sparkle bright o'er undiscovered seas. 

But gold or diamonds with their mortal power 
Or skill or talent wrought by labor's cast 

Cannot call youth back one merry hour, 
For men assert it is forever past. 

73 



Yes, dreams and romance oft do ask a part 
Within the suburbs of a careless hour; 

They melt a chord of virtue in our heart 

And flow our spirits back to childhood power. 

May the moonbeams in eternal gleam 

Kiss the soft foam upon our lake's pure breast 

And brilliant future not oppose our dream 
Or woeful tidings wound our narrow rest. 

So glass away bordered by grassy hills 
And shaded by the overhanging tree; 

Be made pure by brimming woody rills, 
But onlv flattered by such men as me. 







Cbe Robiti's Tirst Song. 



The sun with its glories had sunk to the west, 
Its last beams were dying on the high mountaincrest; 
'Twas the first eve of spring, the wind softly blew, 
The buds in the forest began to undo. 



My soul was o'erjoyed because the prospect was bright. 
The throb in my bosom beat merry and light, 
When my ear caught a sound as it floated along, 
Then my spirits rose higher, 'twas the robin's first song. 



How sweet it sounded as it pierced the dark dell, 
'Twas the first bird of spring, how the rapture did swell; 
My faith it was strong as the glee of a child 
And I thought that Nature in her loveliness smiled, 

Although in this hour — and isn't it queer? — 
The scene on my vision drew forth a tear. 
Oh, where was the spirit, in what mantle clad, 
That on this bright evening made me so sad? 

The feeling that arose was for a form dear, 
A sweet loving sister that slumbered quite near. 
One I loved and cherished, and lived with so long — 
She died as out echoed the robin's last song. 

She lies in the churchyard thro' the long spring day 
And slumbers the hours of sunshine away; 
When the red sun sinks westward, eve murmurs along, 
Unheard by her echoes, the robin's sweet song. 

Sleep on, gentle sister, till the last spring day 
With its songs and its sunshine is folded away; 
Then an angel of mercy will bear you to that shore 
Where the birds and the springtime shall never be o'er. 



Sing on, happy robin, make the spring bright. 
Let your song fill each mortal with purest delight: 
Spring wouldn't be spring, 'twould be lonesome and long, 
If nowhere could be heard the robin's sweet song. 

I shall never forget the robin's sweet lay 

When my form it is bent and I'm wrinkled and gray; 

I shall weep thro' the winter so drear}' and long 

And smile when spring comes and the robin's first song. 





"Hoio ivhite is tJiy bark and Iioiv hlithe is thy blossom. 



Cbe Bircb Crces. 



How white is thy bark and how blithe is thy blossom; 
Oh, could we repose 'neath thy snowflaky bosom! 
The soft winds of summer disturb thy sweet rest; 
Of all trees in the forest thou art sweetest and best. 

On thy thin bark the wandering maiden 
Writes loving notes in novelty laden, 
Ties them so daintily with the wood-vine 
And sends to her lover in sweet summertime. 

Oh, beautiful birch, fairest child of the forest, 
Where goldfinches sit and deliver their chorus. 
How sweetly they sway in thy flowery bosom; 
So white is thy bark and blithe is thy blossom. 



Cbe Country Scboolbousc. 



The schoolhouse sits close by the wood, 
'Tis built as plain as farmers could; 
No brackets on, no colored paint, 
It serves without any complaint. 

The seats within are made of pine 
The teacher's desk is neither fine, 
Tho' very true, but strange to tell. 
It affords no map, not even a bell. 

But the grass around is fresh and green. 
No place can show a gayer scene 
With lovely flowers, rich and rare — 
The wild bird's song fills the air. 

The forests 'neath the land breeze lean 
And rays of sun shine in between, 
The woodbine thickens the maple boughs 
To cool the shade for the panting cows. 



Tile little children with bare brown feet, 
With hair slick combed and faces neat, 
Wrap up their books and iiaste to school 
With merry laii^h through forests cool. 

The}' play upon the grassy slope. 
And lightly jump the swinging rope 
Till the teacher's watch with timely sense 
Proclaims that studies shall commence. 

They slow tread in. not very still, 
And take their seats as scholars will, 
Pick up their books without delay- 
Begin their studies for the day. 

The pretty teacher, gowned in pink, 
Instructs aright, each and all think; 
It makes each fleeting moment blessed. 
So well they answer her request. 

With toils profound in kindly ways 
They quickly spend the summer days, 
When teacher and children with baskets bare 
Home to their evening rest repair. 



While I am writing of this scene 
A shadow passes like a dream. 
In smiling eyes start bitter tears, 
I see the picture of future years: 

These little children with their plays 
In fleeting time have lost their ways, 
While 'round the country filled with toil 
They work their vanished fathers' soil. 

They have made their love, chosen a bride. 
Have settled down, the people's pride; 
No more they roam thro' forests cool, 
For long has closed for them the school. 

The little teacher that once was young. 
Gray hairs her locks are found among; 
The hues her blushing cheeks have fled, 
Her whispering lips no more are red. 

Her step is slow, not as it used to be. 
Her laugh contains not half the glee; 
Sorrow has dimmed her laughing eyes. 
And Time has hoarsed her clear replies. 



Her plans are altered now in life — 

She long has been a faithful wife; 

At home she teaches the golden rule, 

And midnight dreams bring back her school. 

In dreams she sighs for these faded hours, 
Her little school, her youthful bowers; 
God touched her cheek with his magic skill; 
Praise unto him, I love her still. 

A cloud is laid o'er the outlived years, 
My eyes are dimmed with the How of tears; 
The courage that I did attain 
Has slowly melted into pain, 

For in this wizard glass I saw 
A sight that filled my mind with awe. 
What was it? you ask; I haven't told — 
It was my picture, and I was old. 

Furrows were there to welcome Death, 
My heart too old to harbor breath. 
My eyes too dim to find my way, 
Mv form returning then to clay. 



I closed my eyes upon this sight, 
Ope'd them again, and all was right: 
The old schoolhouse again was new. 
The teacher young and pupils, too. 

Thanks to the Lord, I'm young once more, 
My heart beats lightly as before. 
A few more years, then youth adieu. 
This told illusion will be true. 




me Drank from tbe Same Dipper Cben. 



How wt'll 1 ifincinber the schoolhouse so brown 
riiat stood on a hill in the edge of the town 
'Neath the bine vanlting arch of New England skies, 
Where broad rivers rnn, and tall monntains rise. 

In the old grass\' 3'ard we children all played. 
Each barefooted boy and rosy-cheeked maid; 
\\'e knew not the cares of women and men, 
When thirstv we drank from the same dipper then. 

The greatest on earth, the salt of our land. 
Who created the Nation are still in command: 
Be tlie\' humble and poor, in rnral communion. 
They often are chosen the rock of our Union. 

For honor and country the\' give up their life, 
They lead us to glory through oceans of strife; 
How dearly we love all those heroic men! 
When as l)oys we drank from the same dipper then. 

I-^ongtellow and Hawthorne were born to be great — 
In boyhood we knew them as Henrv and Nate; 
Together they sat in the old village school. 
While an old-fashioned master continued to rule. 



There was Harriet Stowe and Caroline Hart 
Sat over opposite, an aisle apart: 
When the water was passed by an nrchin of ten 
They drank from the same rusty tin dipper then. 

Some are over the sea far away from the joys 
That thrilled the young hearts of maidens and boys, 
Some sleep 'neath the breast of the never still waves, 
Not a tear nor a fiower falls on their graves. 

Some sleep on the hills near a monument gray, 
How bitter tears fell as was shoveled the clay; 
Ten thousand lie wrapped in the National blue. 
The innocent schoolmates who studied with you. 

And of those that are left, ah, where do they drink? 
In that realm meditation let's loiter and think: 
Some drink from a brook as it flows in its glee 
In its beautiful bed to the breast of the sea; 

And some humbly drink where a spring bubbles up, 
With their lips to the tide, without goblet or cup: 
And some from a sideboard with glasses so fine 
In luxury quaff the richest of wine. 



Oh, say, will we ever return to our joys, 
The swin^' for the ^irls. the kite for the boys? 
Will we ever surround the old bucket at school, 
In turn drink its water so fresh and so cool? 

Will we plav on the grass or lie in the shade, 
Each curly-haired boy, each rosy-cheeked maid? 
No, -the mountains may move to the depth of the sea. 
But hours of childhood return not to me. 

We are heirs to the cares of the world and its smarts. 
We are children again by reflection of hearts: 
Who would not regret and think till the last 
Of our innocent youth, of the beautiful past? 

Untrue is the reaper who loves not the field 
W'hen the harvest is o'er with its bountiful yield. 
And manhood is false, unseasoned \vith truth. 
Who loves not the flowerv pastures of vouth. 

We children are one, we walk the same sod, 
We honor one ensign, we worship one God, 
And deep in our breast as the brook in the glen 
We taste the pure waters of childhood again. 



niary maxwell* 

In an old and sleepy hamlet 

Nursed beneath two mighty hills 
On the margin of a river 

Watered by a hundred rills 
Stood a humble rustic cabin 

Hidden by the holly vine, 
Where a gav and happy maiden 

Sweeth' sang in summer-time. 

All the village loved the maiden, 

Yet she never dreamed of fame. 
Toiling with her aged parents — 

Mary Maxwell was her name. 
Far across an Eastern ocean 

Sailed an outcast to this land, 
Sought this old sequestered village. 

Won fair Mar\"s heart and hand. 



When arbutus decked tlic hillsick- 

Aud the earl}' rose was red 
\\'illiaui Drake, the handsome stranger, 

Aud Mary Maxwell then were wed. 
Then he reared a humble bower 

Close beside her father's cot 
Planted uiau)^ a gorgeous flower 

And the sweet forget-me-not. 

'Neath his window twined the glories 

In the transitory shade, 
Where tlie spider wove his fibers. 

And his fingers plied the spade: 
He labored thro' the sultry summer 

And the raw and rainy fall, 
Thro' the bleak and cruel winter 

Till he heard the bluebirds call. 

•' Mary, dear,"' began the husband. 

" I have a cottage reared in style 
Far away in tranquil England 

That is waiting for your smile. 
Will you cross the troubled billows. 

Bid your parents fond adieu 
And enjoy the wealth and title 

That are waiting there for vou? " 



Smiling through her faUing teardrops, 

She wiUing sighed her last farewell; 
Picked a rose beneath the window 

And a pansy from the dell: 
Two thin locks of half-white tresses 

'Tween her Bible leaves were pressed, 
But the rose and velvet pansy 

Bloomed upon her heaving breast. 

Fearful tilings were then predicted — 

She would never come there moi'e 
To the hamlet where the roses 

Bloomed above her father's door: 
Many a face was sad and troubled, 

Teardrops fell like April rain 
As she left her quiet cabin, 

Sailed across the Eastern main. 

Now the}' leave the restless steamer. 

In a carriage roll away 
'Mong the hawthorns and the maples 

In the morning dress of May. 
Mary, dear, behold that castle. 

You left a cabin for my sake, 
Henceforth you are Lady Mary — 

I'm the son of Francis Drake." 

' 90 



For nian\- vcars tliis noblf couplt- 

Have been sleeping' with thv dead: 
An hundred times the leaves have rustled 

And the roses have been red: 
But their true, untarnished lesson 

Touched the heart of this rough sage 
And inspired a willing pencil 

That is never stiff with age. 

Few young ciamsels fair and charming 

Will share the wormwood and the smart 
To look beneath a ragged bosom 

And love a pure and noble heart. 
Shoidd some honest-hearted lover 

Ask vou to wander for his sake 
Think of charming Mary Maxwell 

And the loyal William Drake. 




Cbe l)utiible$t Birtb. 



There grew by a woodsy streamlet 
Deep in the forest shade 

The purest fragrant fiower 
That Nature ever made. 



The wild wolves howled around it. 
The trees were tall and drear: 

Joy to this spot was a stranger 
And man was seldom here. 



A gifted traveling gardener 

Discovered this flower one day 

And bore it from the forest 
To a city far away, 



W here the nobles of a Nation 

Gathered in their pride, 
Where finest art was pampered 

And Natnre tnrned aside. 

But all wondered at the flower; 

It was planted then with care, 
In a golden gorgeous garden 

Where the scene was ever fair. 

By the side of that selfsame streamlet 

A pioneer did roam ; 
Chopped doW'U the waving forests 

And built a cabin home. 

And in that rude-built cabin. 
The humblest spot on earth. 

To a bright and blue-eyed infant 
A mother there gave birth. 

Once there came a noble statesman 
To that cabin home so wild 

And saw the brilliant talent 
Showered on this little child. 



And from that humble cabin 
He lured the child one day 

Far away to a city's splendor, 

Where were lords in grand array. 

He sighed o'er all his plaNthings, 
From each was loath to part, 

And most of all the cabin 

Where he grew in Nature's heart. 

His fame spread beyond the city. 
He was known with love and pride, 

And next we see him chosen 
To be the Nation's guide. 

One morn he early wandered 

E're the sun had drunk the dew 

And viewed with pride his garden 
Where a brilliant fiower grew. 

Here while the city slumbered 

They met again on earth; 
They grew alike together. 

The same spot gave them birth. 



So thf fairest work that Nature 

Or man can e'er portray 
l\Iay be parted for a season, 

But will meet some future day. 

And the purest man and flower 
That ever blest our earth 

Are the ones that here are pictured, 
And thev had the humblest birth. 




Cbe City on the Grand. 



To-night I've been wandering slowl}' around 
Through parks and groves and level ground; 

I rode through the valley by terrace and hills. 

By churches and towers and mansions and mills. 
I am amazed at the growth of our city so grand, 
So I'll take the thoughts of my mind in my hand, 

On a clear blank page with my idle pen 

Reveal my views to other men. 

I rode from Oakdale down over the ridge 
And crossed the river on Leonard street bridge. 
The artist that painted a purple sea 
Was painting a shadowy image of me; 
He liad }:)ainted the bridge with his magical beam 
On the living canvas of the running stream. 
At last in Nature's realm I was lost 
On the iron bridge where Pearl street crossed. 



Then I thought of the time when in their pride 

The willows kissed the riverside. 

When the Redman's arrow skimmed the evening mist 
And his children chased after the Will-o'-the-wisp: 

And I thought of when the hunter's rit^e spoke 

And the ax was hid in the virgin oak: 

Before the plow broke the glebe that soured the land 
And sweetened the spot for our citv to stand. 

We have temples of worship for prayer and for praise, 
And schools where our children are taught modern ways; 
We have a home for the orphan, the mangled and old, 
No mortal may suffer with hujiger or cold. 
We have a grand home for old Masons to rest — 
'Twas a love fraternal put the thought in their breast: 
Our hall and our courthouse are built upon rocks, 
We have long streets of asphalt and towering blocks. 

W^e have a home for our soldiers to spend their last hours. 
And those that are gone we have covered with flowers. 
And raised in their memory a monument just 
To show that their deeds in our hearts never rust; 
In our park stands an image no shade can obscure — 
His brow was so noble, his heart was so pure; 
He chiseled the platform in toil and renown 
And garnished the rock where we built up our town. 



\\'e fashion the maple, the birch and the oak 
To sideboards and tables, to felly and spoke; 
We have no rival city — in the furnitnre line 
We make all you can mention, and of latest design; 
And greenhouses where roses in winter do bloom, 
And churchyards where heroes rest under the tomb; 
Our suburbs are dressed in a wild fragrant gown, 
Enticing the country to dwell with the town. 

Take and banish a man from our citv so fair 
O'er the sea to some countr}' he always thought rare. 
An inferior fiag floats stale on the breeze 
And no freedom or love on its margin he sees; 
But, let him return where his innocent voice 
Called brother and sister and girl of his choice. 

Every tree, every church, ever}' stepstone is bright 
And he never knew bliss was on earth till tonight. 

As the ship of our Nation plows over the seas 
And lends all her streamers to swell in the breeze 
May we see our own f^ag like a dove sailing there, 
Majestic and bright through soft azure air; 
'Slay the hum of our city be busy and loud 
And the smoke of the factories curl up to the cloud; 
May our ensign be graceful and high as the rest 
And never repose on her billowy breast. 




'J/is first love had slept many suiiiiners aT^'nr 

In the rear of the clmrch, u'here men lifted the clay." 



Cbc Old Parish Cburcb- 



An old man was sitting' alone by the \va\': 

He was ragged and dusty, wrinkled and gray- 

••Oh, show nie."" he niurmnred. -'the gay blooming birch 

That shaded the steps of the old parish church. 

"There in \outh 1 was christened and m middle life 
Bv its old-fashioned altar I wedded a wife; 
Sweet June was in glory, abloom was the birch — 
Oh. show me the wa\' to the old parish church." 

"Cross over this meadow and climb \'onder stile 
By the cool flowing Avon — 'tis scarcelv a mile; 
There stands all alone a straggling birch. 
It weeps o'er the ruins of the old parish church." 

Ne.xt morning a peasant was passing that way. 

On the old crumbled steps an aged sire lay 

With his eyes closed forever 'neath the storm-beaten birch; 

He had died all alone h\ the old parish church. 

His first love had slept many summers away 

In the rear of the church, where men lifted the clay; 

Now nearly forgotton bv the old dving birch, 

They are resting together near the old parish church. 



I>er Spirit Still Cives. 



Who could be sorry or regret 
When such a soul her Lord has met? 
The cross was heavy that she bore, 
But it's laid down forevermore. 

Her heavenl}' robe is matchless white, 
Her priceless crown is diamond bright; 
Her eyes have ope'd in the realms of peace, 
Her praise begun to never cease. 

Her grace and faith are perfect now, 
No more earth's storms beat 'gainst her brow 
A prayer was shaped by her latest breath — 
The message came, and the pall of death. 

Oh, sinners now who seek for mirth 
And fume awa}- the years of earth. 
Some day in tears and gloomy moan 
You must bid adieu to a worldly home. 

102 



Your frifiids so kind nia\' love you dear, 
Through ros\' hours hover near: 
But maidens fair nor warriors brave 
Can go no farther than the grave. 

So sinks the house of crumbling cla}- 
From the eyes of friends, from blazing day 
She safeh' lies beneath the sod. 
But her spirit lives in the home of God. 

The hand that stills the howling storm, 
The hand that shapes the mountain's form. 
The hand that paints the ocean's wave 
Marks Resurrection o'er her grave. 




Cbere T$ a Cimc. 



There is a time to dance, 
There is a time to sing, 
There is a time to play. 
A time for everything. 

There is a time to sow. 
There is a time to reap, 
Tliere is a time to smile, 
There is a time to weep. 

There is a time to love. 
There is a time to wed, 
There is a time to mourn 
O'er our beloved dead. 

But most of time we need 
Is to spend in silent prayer 
To teach the erring soul 
That watchword to Beware. 



So dance when dance is f);ood. 
And sing" when song is ripe, 
For man and child and matron 
Hear every song you l>ipe. 

And sow when spring is young. 
And reap when summer's old: 
Keep well the garnered sheaves 
All crownetl with grains of gold: 

And love where love can't die, 
And wed in early June; 
Then ever\' chord of life 
Will ]ieal in jierfect tune. 



^£^ 





"Over the iiieadoivs and over tlie trees. 



JTutunm Days* 

Over the meadows and over the trees 

And over the billows that bound. 
To the east and the west in the breath of the breeze, 

A shadow is closing around; 
The children's soft eyes shower sad tears 

Because their loved flowers decay, 
And their kind sires, weak'ned with years, 

Look sad for spring faded away. 

The vouths and the maidens whispering love 

Stop in the jov of their tale: 
Lower their hands from sworn vows above 

To 'brace the grim breath of the gale. 
For it came from the breast of a summer so gay 

That brought many pleasures to those, 
They hate to see it pass on to decay 

And cold winter come on with its snows. 

107 



Summer was young but a few months ago. 

Her roses were red with full bloom: 
Her valleys were green, her sunshine did glow 

And her bosom contained not a gloom; 
But Time's blighting touch withered the rose 

And turned the green valleys to brown. 
On Eternal's lost realm laid them to repose 

And bade autumn's wilds settle down. 

It's just so in life, youth's blossoms are fair, 

Our cheeks are red with its bloom: 
Our foreheads are covered with dark wa\y hair 

And our bosoms enwrap not a gloom. 
But soon rolling years lead us on to mature 

And robs the red cheek of its hue; 
The battles of life we then can endure 

If our bosoms are perfect and true. 




morning. 



The brilliant sun is rising 

With its partial slanting" rays, 
Shoots across the mossy valley, 

Sets the hilltop all ablaze 
With a soft, warm crimson color. 

In which the robin dips her wing. 
Then swells her throat with richer music 

To the glory of the spring. 

And the bluebird ])ipes her carols 

O'er the meadows far away. 
As she bathes in the reflection 

Of the newborn king of day. 
Through the meadows fresh and dewy. 

Robed with tender blades of grass, 
Newly from his sunkissed pillow 

The farmer's son does lightly pass. 

Not the Moral. 
Now I love the chanting robin 

And the farmboy's gentle call. 
But I love the farmer's daughter 

Ten times better than them all. 



Cbc Spritidtitne. 



The spring- is here with all the cheer 
That doth revive with any year: 
The cold and dreary blust'ry day 
Has sweetly softened into May; 
The sheep are nibbling o'er the hills, 
The fish are dancing in the rills, 
The butterflies feast on the flower, 
The children laugh within their bower. 

Adown yon vale of bush and moss 
Full many a fern the breezes toss. 
Full many a violet blue and lone 
Doth nod around the mossy stone; 
Hard by the spring a brook does rise 
And thro' the cresses a pathway hies 
And turns itself in rolling glee 
Around the roots of an old elm tree. 



Its banks are fairest ever seen, 

Its bed a pebbly gold ravine, 

The hills along' its joyful way 

Are greener than the ocean's bay. 

The robin hops upon the grass 

And drinks from Nature's looking glass, 

The cowslip turns its yellow eye 

Where iiows the tinv brooklet by. 

We leave the brook so loved and gay 
To chatter o'er its stony way. 
And turn to view the country all. 
Each tree and bush both great and small. 
And small farm boys, some eight or nine. 
Gathering fern and running pine 
To deck the loveliest, prettiest maid 
To be May (]ueen of all who played. 

The adder tongue from forest deep. 
Arbutus from the hillside steep, 
Bluebells from the distant glade, 
White lilies from the early shade. 
Red roses from the open plain 
And violets from the pasture lane 
Are plucked with care by hands so dear 
To garland o'er the future year. 



How happv were we in those da^'S 
When from the east the sunbeams blazed, 
When for sweet flowers we children strolled, 
More blest than man in search of gold, 
Down a ravine of checkered shade 
Where arbutus blooms a carpet made; 
The fragrant pink, the heavenly white 
Were garnered there in pure delight. 

Oh, blessed Spring, Mo tarry here, 
The essence of each rolling year: 
If thy soft voice the flowers ope 
Thou bring'st us love and tender hope. 
'Twas in thy reign we learned to woo 
The favorite love our childhood knew. 
And when thy roses blushed in red 
We chose our sacred time to wed. 

But various seasons come and go. 
The raindrops chase the dancing snow. 
But ever when spring has blossomed green 
Our hearts look back to that cool ravine; 
We see the maidens dancing spry 
With bosoms light as a butterfly. 
We see the flowers that decked the plain 
And spring is green in our souls again. 

113 



Cbe Cragedy of Illackinac Island. 



'Twas in September when the rain 
Began to fall o'er woods and main 
And autumn frosts made green leaves red 
And pretty tiowers drooped their head 
And summer birds soared in flocks 
And bade farewell to trees and rocks 
And waved their wings, then explore 
The forests of more southern shore; 
The venturer now leaves his track 
Upon the Isle of Mackinac. 

But one morn dawned so clear, 

So calm and warm was the atmosphere, 

That all the seekers of delight 

Led up their sports with prospects bright; 

On bicycle and velocipede 

For a round of pleasure bent their speed 

Amid the hum of the resort 

In all its style and pleasant sport; 

Dressed in fall coat and autumn frock, 

A couple walked towards "Sugar Loaf Rock. 

115 



They were only lovers could plain be seen 

By the shy glances passed between 

And pretty words upon his part 

Which sank into her willing heart. 

A vessel came the eve before 

Which brought from a distant shore 

One Scottish lass from a highland cot 

To see a lad not yet forgot 

Those selfsame two of whom I write, 

With eyes of blue and tresses light, 

As other folks were shortly bound 

To see the curious rocks around. 

At last the winding gravel bed 

Pictured plain "Sugar Loaf" ahead, 

A towering rock extending high 

To meet the blows of an angry sky, 

Blackened o'er by ages past, 

Hardened by the wintry blast, 

A shapeless rock where warriors climbed, 

Where cedar boughs used to twine. 

'Twas here the maid of savage birth 
Indulged in wild uncivil mirth; 
Here she would wait in the evening clear 
For her red lover to appear. 

116 



'Twas hei'f they framed their vows of love, 

Swore by the rock that towered above 

To loyal be as lovers should — 

At least the sovereigns of the woods: 

Around this rock so firm and tall 

Hovered the pleasure seekers all. 

Then spoke he with pallid brow, 

" Unto 'Arch Rock ' let's wander now." 

A curious thing, a hollow stone, 

The "all-seeing eye" of " the island home,' 

Where one beholds the billows blue, 

The azure sky and forest, too. 

She shuddered, as here they delayed, 

And lowly whispered, " I am afraid." 

He further added, "A look or two 

At this grand freak I guess will do," 

Then turning 'round said, "'Polly, dear, 

' Robinson's Folly' is very near." 

They followed up the path so long, 
With many an echoing ancient song; 
He pushed the cedar boughs awry 
For this fair maiden to pass by. 
When suddenly as one can think 
The path ended upon a brink; 



A hanging peak of crumbling stone 
Far down below the forest moan 
And 'neath the rock on which they stand 
Great waters wash the golden sand. 

Here on this cliff a cedar tree 

With spreading branches used to be, 

But the white man's ax, the red man's foe, 

Felled it with many a sturdy blow, 

And on the stump so marred and brown 

This viewing couple did sit down; 

A moment only silence reigned, 

The wild birds sang their lays in vain; 

'Twas he sweet Nature's silence broke. 

Unto the maiden thus he spoke: 

" My ideal maid, high as the sky 

And deep as that blue water, 
Eternal as the world to come, 

I love a Scottish daughter. 

" In all the sorrows of my life, 

'Mid all bitterness laden, 
The burnished day, the gloomy eve, 

I oft think of this maiden. 

118 



"And when the years do solemn close 
And comes the New Year hour 

I feel the smart of the thorny bush, 
But I never see the flower. 

"But fortune Jiolds a golden prize 

For all earth's melancholy: 
Thus all the love I claim on earth 

Sits now on ' Robinson's Folly.' 

"And now I ask, 'Wilt thou be mine?' 
I trust vou won't say, • Never,' 

Or far, far down beneath that wave 
We will slee]:). and sleep forever." 

At this injunction spoke the maid, 
'Mid smiles and modest laughter: 

" You came across the rolling blue 
And then I followed after." 

Then they clasped each other hands, 
The wrongs of life were righted; 

No matter where their feet shoxdd tread 
Their hearts would be united. 



119 



A mei'i'y scene the evening showed. 
The bells rang loud and plenty; 

The hero which my pencil knew 
Had wed this lass of twenty. 

But scarcely had a short year fled 

Till through the churchyard they bore her; 
And now the grass and daisies white 

Have long been growing o'er her. 

Some summers since a weeping man, 

Tear-stained and melancholy, 
Bade farewell to earth's dim land 

And leaped from " Robinson's Folly." 



Still grow the grasses o'er her grave, 
Mingled with pretty heather: 

He silent lies beneath the wave — 
They sleep, but not together. 




Heflection. 

There's knowledge never taught in books, 
There's water that never flow'd in brooks; 
But we must take the hunter's cup 
And from the cool spring dip it up. 

'Tis fresh to taste, as sweet a draught 
From a running brook was never quaffed. 

Thus, sleeps a knowledge in each mind, 

Its equal in no book we find. 

We must follow up the path of grace 
And we must find its hiding place. 

We are lost in vice, take virtue's hand 
And it will lead us back to land. 




"77/f stream played Nature's melody "with "waters soft and clear.''' 



Hlotid tbe CooHing 61a$$. 



One evening man}- years ago 

When I was but a child 
I sat beside a shining stream 

That pierced the forest wild. 

Not I alone had wandered there 

To watch the parting day, 
For just below two lovers strolled 

With hearts so light and gay. 

'Twas in the bonnie month of May 
When tender was the grass: 

He told this maid his loving dream 
Beside the looking glass. 

She softly sighed, her cheeks were red, 
Her eyes shone clear and bright. 

And many a tress of wavy hair 
La}' on her forehead white. 

123 



The spring had clothed each tree and flower, 

The thrush was singing near, 
The stream played Nature's melody 

With waters soft and clear. 

The sunbeams softly had withdrawn, 

The dew fell on the grass, 
Still sweetly rang the voice of love 

Beside the looking glass. 

But love, like breath of roses, 

Must all too quickly pass, 
So, soon they wandered their last time 

Along the looking glass. 

One strain of Time's beguiling harp, 

One murmur of this stream, 
No lovers wander on its banks, 

All broken is their dream. 



The maid is sleeping 'neath the tree 
Where evening bade them part 

And with her in the silent dust 
Doth sleep his youthful heart. 

124 



The vines their beaten path have hid, 
Their seat with moss has grown; 

He sees the sad and cruel change 
While idling there alone. 

For otten in the newborn spring 
He treads the tasseled grass 

And sits and weeps for her who sleeps 
Beside the looking glass. 






Cbe Bridal £ve. 



Put on the bridal veil, fair maid, 

This is your wedding night; 
Pin roses on your bosom 

O'er robes of snowy white. 
Play some harmonious melody 

Low, sweet and calm 
And blow, ye tempered breezes, 

With all your heavenly balm, 

For best of earth is trembling now 
Will joy or sorrow deck her brow? 

Oh, linger at the glass, fair maid, 

In earnest, silent prayer; 
Look through the bridal veil and see 

Your future waiting there. 
The past comes first — your grandmother, 

And pretty mother, too. 
Each had this nervoiis moment 

That comes but once to you. 

The leaves have withered eighty years. 
Their graves are watered with your tears. 

126 



There sits a girlish mother 

With her firstborn on her knee; 
She sighs, " When will my husband 

Come back to babe and me? " 
He comes at last with swollen face 

And awkward, staggering feet. 
She hastens down the narrow path 

Her early love to meet; 

A chill steals o'er her worse than death- 
Rum taints his breath. 

There's another husband coming home, 

Takes babe from his wife's arms 
And kisses each a hundred times. 

Revealing thus his charms. 
Alas, this husband sails away 

From country, babe and wife; 
Such are the sorrows that befall 

The luckless seaman's life. 

For bows oft split and masts do break 
And sailors watery slumbers take. 

And there's a mother all alone 
Where June's red clover waves; 

No baby nestles in her arms, 
She kneels beside a grave; 



The bloom of all her life is past, 

She shares no husband's smile; 
Her home is like a hoard of gold 
On some deserted isle, 

Or as a flower that blooms and dies 
Unplucked, unseen by human eyes. 

One clover field is all we see, 

All else a barren plain: 
Where love has died and beauty sighed 

There grow the weeds of pain; 
The gem that sleeps low in the ground 

We dig for many a day, 
And when we bring it to the light 

Its luster fades away. 

Thus life is but an idle tale 
When you take off the bridal veil. 




Contetittnetit 



I have no land, I own no home: 
My right here is a chance to roam, 
With the earth below, the skies above, 
With a heart of faith and a breast of love. 

I live contented in this land; 

I am a pilgrim in that band 

Who counts this world's best splendor dross 

When the summons comes to that haven 'cross. 

I can die as calm, I am just as brave. 
I can sleep as soft in the moss}' grave, 
Mv soul as free, my flight as bold 
As he who dies with hoards of gold. 

So now remember, one arid all, 
From the gift of state to the lowly call, 
That pure contentment of the mind 
Is the greatest wealth on earth we find. 




''How oft she stood on this bridge and sight'd.'' 



From $aitit=0loud to Itlalmaison. 



One lovely spring in the long ago 

When skies were calm soft winds did blow, 

Napoleon came in kingly pride 

To fair Saint-Cloud with his queenly bride. 

He was the lord of that mansion fair 

And she the angel to bless him there; 

'Twas here the star of hope did rise 

And sailed and shone through azure skies; 

Here all his happiest years were spent, 

Though his dreaming heart was not content. 

What beautiful dames thro' the fresh woods strolled. 

How sweet was the love their red lips told. 

What graceful ranks of grenadiers 

And glittering troops of cavaliers. 

Here late in the night gay laughter rang, 

To the lute's sweet chords the minstrel sang, 

Through autumn's eves at the brilliant ball; 

The lamps shone bright in the banquet hall, 

Fair faces flushed and hearts beat proud 

When the music rose to the waiting crowd. 



But Bonaparte saw in his soldiers eyes 

The star of destiny begin to arise; 

He saw a court as his guns roared loud 

That far outrivaled old Saint-Cloud; 

He saw a wife more brave and fair, 

A kingly throne and a lordly, heir; 

He saw the world at his command, 

Each national rein was in his hand; 

Where'er his cannon rent the air 

The laurels of victory were garnered there. 

It was only a false, alluring dream. 
There was no wife like liis Josephine; 
And o'er his retreat the guns roared loud, 
There was no mansion like fair Saint-Cloud; 
The waves of defeat that none could quell 
Rushed over his path like the iires of hell; 
The dark clouds covered his skies of blue 
And his star went out at Waterloo. 
How oft he wished to recall the scene 
Of fair Saint-Cloud and Josephine. 

Saint-Cloud is only a ruin now. 
Like the dream that haunted Napoleon's brow 
The gray rats chase in its crumbling walls. 
Through empty casements the moonlight falls; 



The song is hushed and the dance is o'er, 

The brave and thi.' beautiful come no more; 

Its clii\'ah\' all has passed away 

And gone with the revelers on to decay; 

Now Napoleon sleeps as sad and long 

And as deep as the minstrel who sang his song. 

Then after those years so bright and proud 
That Josephine spent at the court Saint-Cloud 
Came those at Malmaison in lonely strife 
When Napoleon no longer called her "wife." 
Hither she came to this quiet resort 
With her blighted hopes and her little court; 
Here trees grew wild and vines climbed high 
And the green leaves hid her clouding sky. 
Near that humble home was a sloping ridge 
And a stream was spanned by a rustic bridge. 

How oft she stood on this bridge and sighed 
As her face was reflected in the tide 
And scorned her beauty — as the dark waves flow- 
That a soldier loved in the long ago. 
She saw the picture he once thought fair, 
The eye's bright light and shadowy hair; 
She felt he was near, her hero bold. 
And loved her well as in days of old; 

133 



But he was over the Alps and far away 
Whei'e the sun was painting Itahan day. 

But when he fell from his kingly throne 

And died in that lonesome rockbound home, 

Of all who mourned the brave and fair 

O'er the ruined hopes they buried there, 

Was Josephine in secret and truth 

The pride of his heart and the love of his youth; 

And not till the stars shall fall from above 

Will the people of earth forget to love 

The faithful heart of that dark-eyed queen, 

Napoleon's forgiving Josephine. 




Cbe liotne of my Voutb. 



I returned to the home of my youth again 

And I saw the old town that covered the plain: 

I scarce knew the place, but some relics of truth 

Pointed out plain 'twas the home of my youth: 

The streets are all changed, now they're stately and grand, 

The shades and the walks show the growth of our land, 

And fair modern houses that upward have sprung, 

All add to the changes since I was young. 

The home where I lived has lost it sweet charm; 

Then I was voung and life knew no alarm: 

The change makes me sad as I gaze on the spot 

Where my laughter died out and my mirth was forgot; 

The grove where I played has long been cut down, 

The leaves of its glor}' are scattered around: 

The plow of a stranger has turned o'er the sod 

And spoiled the green meadow which in Junetime I trod. 



I strayed to the spot where the pole swing stood. 
Where shadows fell heavy from the deep maple wood. 
Where wintergreen berry and wild myrtle grew, 
Wliere pigeon and partridge on whirling wings flew; 
But the swing it has gone, the gray partridge flown. 
And a man, not a boy, is wand'ring alone; 
A strange face at the door, they know not my pain 
As I enter the old-fashioned portal again. 

There's the toil of mv father as long as the day 
W^hen with hammer and chisel he labored away: 
I fancy I hear my mother's sweet voice 
In the lullaby song which was ever my choice; 
And out in the shed I can hear the same noise 
That fell from the lips of the gay romping boys: 
I feel deeply the change and give way to tears — 
Oh, what could we give in exchange for those years? 

The dear Rose of Sharon that bloomed by the door 

Is faded and gone, it blossoms no more; 

The tall bachelor buttons no longer are blue 

And changed is the spot where the old pieplant grew. 

Such as this were the scenes that appeared to my view 

In meadow and garden as I journeyed through 

In manhood to visit in sorrow and pain 

The old fashioned scene that covered the plain. 



But 1 bid thee farewell, 1 must travel away 
And leave thee as sad as the parting of day; 
Yet oft shall I think of thy never still shade 
That flickers the path where in boyhood I played. 
So goodby, blessed home, I leave you at last, 
Your fate in the future is just like the past, 
And whene'er 1 return in the forthcoming years 
You will call out again my sighs and my tears. 





,^ 


»" 


msm^ '■•■--• 





"Our /iTi'S {ire likt- our quiet lUdlks. 



Our Cives Hrc Cikc Our Quiet (Ualks. 



Our lives are like our quiet walks 

Among our city shade, 
Sometimes b\' da}', sometimes by night. 

Sometimes while storms invade. 

Here is a grassy, level lawn, 

Beset with various flowers. 
And here's a term of life and love 

Beset Avith precious hours. 

Here is a sand}', broken lot 
All void of grass and flowers. 

And here's a term of age and grief 
All void of precious hours. 



f>er Sister. 



I'm sitting now beneath the same old tree 
That in the past once sheltered you and me: 
The spring was old and summer near at hand. 
The balmy breeze swept o'er the meadow land. 

Then the pink rose bloomed fresh upon your cheek 
And love's rich dew made its color sweet; 
No bitter tears flowed from either sect, 
And your sweet eyes would my face reflect. 

I was young, no woe had left its trace 
In deep wrinkles on my beardless face; 
No frosty winter woe to my eyes could bring, 
For how I loved to hear the sleighbells ring. 

140 



There was no da}' too long nor breeze too wild. 
Life was to me so smooth, serene and mild; 
I thonght this world was only love and pride 
Because I only saw the brighter side. 

But Master Time has since woven his years 
Of widows' woes, of war and lovers' tears; 
And o'er the hill the cottage still doth stand 
In whicli \'Ou dwelt when first I asked your hand. 

But vou said, " No, such a thing can never be," 
And so we parted 'neath this same old tree. 
You went home to be happy yet, 
And I in \'ain tried you to forget. 

I spake a farewell as I wended West 
To build a mansion in old age to rest. 
Where pretty maids would never come nor go 
Nor teach a man to love, then answer, "No." 

But Fate's again brought me to the spot 
Where hopes of life were once nearly forgot; 
Your youngest sister then was "Baby Bess" — 
She hears my question and she answers, "Yes." 




"A babbling brook swiftly rolling away.''' 



Cbe Brook and tbe £;bil(l. 



One morning 1 saw in the beautv of May 

A babbling' brook swiftly rolling a\va_y; 

It rose where the forest was shadv and green, 

Where the birds and the flowers conid ever be seen. 

How freshlv it rolled throngh those beautiful hours, 
Giving drink to the grass and strength to the fiowers 
And washing the roots of the trees where it ran 
And quenching the thirst of the wa3'faring man. 

But it Howed to the plain where no flowers e'er bloomed. 
Where the sands and the sun its cool waters consumed; 
Not a trace could be seen but a small narrow road 
That marked the cool place where the gentle brook flowed. 



One morning I saw an innocent child 

With a beautiful face so tranquil and mild 

In the garden of pleasure where youth's flowers bloom, 

Where uncumbered leisure had plenty of room. 

But the maiden passed on, to womanhood grew 
And gathered in life the small drops of dew. 
And roamed far away from this babbling stream 
Where the sunshine of life has awakened her dream. 

And should she come back from that faraway shore 
And stray by the bank of this streamlet once more. 
She would find that her life had lost its sweet strain 
And expire like the brook when it got to the plain. 






Cbe Dream maiden. 



Weai'N' and worn I sank to sleep 

One January night: 
The cold winds whistled round the house, 

The fields la\- cold and white. 

In dreams I saw a charming maid 

That in the past I knew: 
Her voice was clear, her cheeks were red. 

Her eves were azure blue. 

She seemed to linger at m}^ side 

For many long gav hours; 
Each shadv nook we skipped along 

Like bees among the flowers. 

The birch unfolded her sweet leaves, 

The cherry was in bloom: 
The woods were all in harmony 

Like eventide in June. 

Too graceful for my pen to paint 
Was her matchless crinison gown; 

Her hands were soft and white as milk, 
Her neck was smooth as down. 



She talked of all my boyhood years, 
Of dark and sunny weather; 

There was deep love in every Avord 
As we two talked together. 

And once she breathed upon my cheek 

And kissed my weary brow 
And pressed me to her gentle breast — 

Where is that maiden now? 

She gave me one fresh crimson rose 
That bloomed within her hair, 

Then like a raindrop in the sea 
She vanished in the air. 

I woke and that bright dream was o'er. 

The maid forever fled; 
A dozen years the snow has blown 

Across her narrow bed. 



The snow lay spotless on the porch, 

One footprint at the door, 
One crimson rose new plucked did lie 

Upon my chamber floor. 

146 



Dreamland. 



Weary, oh so weary, 

Sank I to repose 
In midwinter drear^^, 

Burdened with the snows; 
Light as was my slumber, 

Gentle as it seemed, 
Visions without nnmber 

In white radiance beamed. 

Pulleys they were dusty. 

Buzzing all day long, 
Arbors old and rusty. 

Saws they sang a song; 
Timber soft and sappy 

Pinching all the while. 
Laborers were happy. 

Joking with a smile. 



Dreaming, I was thinking 

Of a faded day, 
Slowly in forgetting, 

The present passed away; 
I saw the thirsty cattle 

Drinking in the brook, 
I heard the fishpoles rattle, 

I saw the line and hook. 

The yellow corn was growing. 

The golden apples fall, 
The silver brook was flowing 

O'er boulders great and small, 
There Avas the meadow daisy, 

The ever turning plow. 
The landscape it was hazy 

Far o'er the mountain's brow. 

Life was only pleasure, 

Never a jar or woe, 
Dreamland only leisure — 

Why can't life be so? 
Young I was and cherry. 

With my wife and boy 
Why should I not be merry 

And only think of joy? 

148 



In splendor all abeaming, 

Divided from all strife, 
Softly I was dreaming 

Of a nobler life — 
Alas, the whistle blowing 

Disturbed my peaceful dream, 
I woke to the sense of knowing 

I was driven yet by steam. 

Like this some quiet morning. 

When life is at its best, 
Death will blow his timely warning 

And break our dreamy rest. 
And mansions, gold and beauty 

In a shadowy world shall gleam 
And actual life and duty 

Shall be a vanished dream. 




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memories of Cbarlevoix. 



Never to be forgotten was our visit 

To Charlevoix this happy passing year, 

Yet I often wonder just what is it 

That binds it to memory fresh and dear. 

To leave behind the sultry, scorching weather 
And go where breezes give us back our strength. 

To dwell with friends so kind and linked together. 
To roam the woods and find sweet rest at length. 

The tie that binds it to our memory dear 
Is not a mystery locked in man's illusion, 

It is because we wander every year 

To rest a while in peace and sweet seclusion. 

We stray with our dear loved ones down the beach 
And spend the day in some quiet nook 

Or float in our bateau where we can reach 

The cedar boughs that grow beside the brook. 

151 




"And spend the dity in soiiu- quiet nook. 



And when these wanderings can no longer please 
We then return to Charlevoix, fair town, 

And at " The Inn "" we rest in roval ease 

And dreani at night on snow-white beds of down. 

Then when the early slanting sunbeams break 
Through the grove and sparkle o'er the lawn 

We watch the crimson on the mighty lake 

Grow red and vellow. then at last withdrawn. 

We join witli our beloved at even'tide, 

Strangers and neighbors all are gathered there. 

And jokes go round, tales of love and pride, 
And chat of home in distant cities fair. 

And when the frost unto the woods has given 
A coat of white that sunbeams turn to brown 

We say farewell to scenes so much like heaven 
Board the train and seek our native town. 



Oh, blessed North where autumn comes so early 
And timid spring halts ever on the way, 

No pen nor voice can e'er describe thee fairly. 
But dear as life is th}^ cool summer day. 

153 



Our Cbrotie. 



We need not be a president 
To have our goodness known, 

We need not be of royal birth 
To sit upon a throne. 

There is a throne of equal worth 

Given with every l")reath, 
W^e have it all the hours of life 

But give it back in death. 

The manner we treat God and men 
Is the material of that throne, 

And the way our neighbors know us 
Is the way we may be known. 

There's manv a vacant throne in life 

And bitter rusty heart 
So cold that we can scarcely tell 

The good and bad apart. 

The men who have the richest throne 
Are those we all remember. 

Like flowers that bloom in sultry June 
We cherish in December. 



Cbe Picture of a Flower. 

There stood two skillful workmen 
One golden summer hour, 

One held in his hand a poem 

The other the picture of a flower. 

Said the poet to the artist: 
" Your work is ver}- rare; 

The color and shape is perfect 
But the best part is not there. 

" You can make the petals perfect, 

Some shades are deep, some faint, 
But the fragrance of the flower 
No brush can ever paint. 

" My words can paint the odor. 
Your brush the simple flower 
That blooms in tangled forests 
To bless the summer hour." 

The artist folded his easel. 

The poet wiped his pen. 
For to paint one perfect flower 

It took two perfect men. 



Roll Call of Poets. 



Shakspere knew Bacon 

And Tennyson loved Lamb, 

While Nye, Ward and Crockett 
Feasted on Cunningham. 

Young Thompson was Riley 

When they Raleigh round DeFoe; 

Carleton and Whittier 
Could not Read of Poe. 

Hawthorne was a Longfellow 
To Wade under the Dore; 

Dante, Chaucer, Goethe and Milton, 
Homer and Dryden are no Moore. 

Bryant revered Bunyan, 

Scott and Swift met Burns; 

Addison and Spencer 

On Driftwood took turns. 



Mrs. Heiiians donned her Hood, 
Walked with Byron to the Field; 

Rose Thorp followed after, 
Arnold's secrets to reveal. 

Gray and Campbell were no Goldsmiths 

And Bishop was no Pope. 
Emerson and Shelly 

Were not Byers without Hope. 

Wesley and Montgomery 

W^rote sentiment sanguine 
And, like their brothers, Watts and Sankey, 

W^ere both likewise divine. 





O'' er the road beside the river ^neath the spreading ehu boughs. 



Cbe River Hoad. 



O'er the road beside the river 

'Neath the spreading ehn boughs 

Treads the old man in the evening 
With his herd of panting cows. 

Since a boy each morn and evening 
He has marched this road along; 

Here he sang his schoolday ballad, 
Here he hummed his manhood song. 

Years ago these woods were heavy, 
Deep and dark the forest shade; 

That was when the strong wood-cutter 
This old beaten roadway made. 

And his sire marched on this gravel 
When the summer-day was done, 

But grew old and ceased to travel — 
Was succeeded by his son. 

Now the setting sun does linger 
On an old-fashioned abode. 

Another old man drives the cattle 
Down the beaten river road. 



Cbe Old Ulbeel and tbe new. 



I was tliinking to-night what father said 

As I rapidly rolled away 
Among the fragrant maples, 

Dressed in the robe of May: 

^' Here is a wheel, my daughter, 
As a present I give it to thee, 
And if you make good use of it 
How blest will the giver be." 

Then a tear rolled down his sunburnt cheek 

And I quickly kissed it away, 
As I thought how sweet my father looked 

With his hair just turning gray. 

I know he thought of an ancient day 
When his father came from town 

And brought his mother a different wheel 
When her wav}' hair was brown. 

And I knew he said the very words 

My father had spoken to me: 
*' And if you make good use of it 

How blest will the giver be." 

160 



A diffei'ent wheel from the one he gave 

To me this liappv night. 
For it toiled away the winter hours 

When the fireplace was bright. 

The children have all been lulled to sleep 

By its drowsy humming tune, 
Like lapsing waves on somber shores 

On sultry nights in June. 

But no more it will sit ai'ound the fire 

And sing as in davs of yore 
For it sleeps in the garret cold and dark 

While wild winds madlv roar. 

Like a good old-fashioned patient man 

Who has really lived too long 
And dwells in a dingy, quiet room 

But gayly lives in song. 

As the wheel waits for that matron's step 

And heavy toiling breath, 
Thus the old man waits for a knock at the door 

And the welcome voice of death. 



But the new wheel sits in the hallway there 
Where blushes the summer day, 

Where the sun pours in her golden light 
And merry children play. 

It shares our joys and toils alike, 

It knows the smoothest road; 
It never complains when on its back 

Is laid a heavy load. 

Each wheel had a glorious task to do 
And they did them in their prime, 

For the old wheel spun my stockings 
And the new wheel wove my rhyme. 




T l>ave Only One Ulisb to make. 



When I was but a little boy, 

Running around the town, 
My feet were chapped, my toes were stubbed, 

My cheeks were both burnt brown. 

When mother called me home at night 

I'd go with a stubborn dread; 
She would wash my little smarting feet, 

I would pray, then go to bed. 

One night I opened up my heart, 

I told her my deep plan, 
How I was very tired of youth 

And wished to be a man. 

A tear-drop sparkled in her eye, 

A shadow crossed her brow, 
I did not know the reason then, 

But I understand it now. 

Could she but hear her gray-haired child 

I think it would give her joy. 
For I have only one wish to make. 

And that's — to be a boy. 

163 




"J'he deer goes !>oiinding througJi the woods.'''' 



October Days. 



The fall shades of October days 

Bring many thoughtful hours; 
We tread upon the scarlet leaves, 

We see the faded flowers. 

The deer goes bounding through the woods, 

The partridge soars away, 
The chipmunk chatters in the oak, 

The red squirrel and the gray. 

The robin sings her parting song, 

The wild goose cries at night 
As on her lofty starry way 

She takes her southern flight. 

And as I travel thro' the woods 

I think of summer hours 
When all the leaves were fresh and green 

And fragrant were the flowers. 



When every wild bird in the woods 

Did flit on silver wing; 
With charming lays and melodies 

Each leafy tree did sing. 

The hills and plains were fresh and pure 
From fern to stalwart tree — 

Why should not man, the lord of all, 
Be happy, blest and free? 

But now, alas, the meadows brown 
And groves are sere and gray 

And many a hope their beauty wove 
With them have passed away. 

October's shades reflecting forth 

Show us in a few years 
The lives of all ambitious men 

End but in toils and tears. 

Thus seasons pass, and men likewise 

And nations disappear; 
All things do fade below the skies, 

All is uncertain here. 



166 



Cbc Banjo's Strain/' 



Oh, how I love at close of eve 

To sit and rest my careworn brani 

Within a family circle dear 

And hear the banjo's charming strain. 

A happy heart in manhood's prime, 
A home filled with rapture and glee. 

The sweet strains sound around the walls 
And melt the soul of me. 

But years do fly on Time's quick wheels; 

Turn eyes to dim and locks to gray; 
Yet light of other days reveals, 

But each time farther yet away. 



That father's voice will soon be hushed. 
His restless heart must cease to beat; 

But even though its pride be fled 

Its strains be just as clear and sweet. 

Some offspring then will turn the keys 
And pick the music from the string 

And in some new and happy home 
The hope of other years shall bring. 

In future years on deserted walls, 

'Mid dusty silence and cobweb stain, 

Be it tuned in huts or capitols. 

Its enchanting sound be still the same. 




Our Public Schools. 



It was early fall, bright was the day, 

The men had gone to their work away, 

That I stood where two roads did meet 

To watch the children on the street. 

Each carried a bundle of various books — 

Their faces betrayed their schoolday looks; 

Unwillingly some trudged to school, 

As they thought of the woods and swimming pool. 

Vacation was o'er and, from the scene 

Of flowery lakes and country green. 

The gay fair faces, sun-tanned brown. 

With their wonderful secrets came back to town. 

From clover meadows and shady dales. 

From sunny slopes and grassy vales. 

From picnic groves and rivers cool 

Thev leave them all for the city school. 



I followed a group of girls and boys 

And heard them relate their pastime joys 

Until, at last, to the school we came — 

Then I longed to be a boy again. 

I climbed the steps, as did they all, 

The principal met me in the hall 

And showed me the rooms and drawings fine, 

Each species of skill and modern design. 

How far superior to the ways and rules 

Since I attended the country schools; 

Built out of logs and covered with staves 

And stuffed with moss in winter days. 

But, thanks to our fathers, they did their best — 

The grandest heroes in all the West. 

They paved the way in toil sincere 

That has led to this beautiful schoolhouse here. 

We honor the teachers that were so concerned 
O'er the lessons passed our children learned, 
And we trust the book that was bought to-day 
Will be taught to them in the same good way. 
Each secret of lore may your wisdom find 
And make it plain to their growing mind. 
May they never forget the Golden Rule 
Taught by the teachers of the public school. 

170 



All honor to you, parents, now getting gray, 

For the kindness )ou have shown to-day. 

You have built the schools and the books have bought 

And paid the teachers for the lessons taught. 

You want to know what your children learn 

For your interest taken in their concern. 

It is right that you should and, in future days. 

May your children repay your care with praise. 

And, children, how happy you are to-day, 

As onward to school you make your way. 

You ought to be thankful for walks of stone. 

For the clothes you wear and the kindness shown, 

For few of 3'our sires that live to day 

Had the privilege of school in as good a way. 

So, gather the good for memories' store. 

For soon your schooldays will be o'er. 

Be earnest and steady and now prepare 
To fill the pulpit and mayor's chair; 
For manhood soon will be scattered o'er 
This army of young that go home at four. 
They soon shall possess a home and a wife — 
Turn more of the actual leaves of life. 
Then learn the sequel of the Golden Rule 
Which first was taught in the public school. 




'Beneath an old and famous tree a bard sal down to rest. 



Cbe Old Bard. 



Beneath an old and famous tree 
A bard lay down to rest: 

Sleep took possession of his limbs 
While dreams lived in his breast. 

Close by a cooling brooklet ran 
With one sweet simple song; 

The poet woke, he heard its lay, 
And listened to it long. 

It sang of all his boyhood 3'ears: 
With heart so light and free 

He waded cross this cooling brook, 
Which was his childhood sea. 

It told of apple-blossomed May, 
Of Love's sweet ideal hours; 

It told of faded, wrinkled cheeks, 
Of crushed and blighted flowers. 



It told him of a tender maid 

With wavy auburn hair 
That just twice twenty years before 

Had wandered with him there. 

The brooii sang on its melody, 
Tears came to the poet's eyes, 

While soft and calmly it did tell 
Where that sweet maiden lies. 

" Sing on, sweet stream," the poet cried, 
" Thy ripples are free from strife, 
Thy voice is never hoarse with age, 
But sings the Psalm of Life. 

" My words have cheered ten thousand souls 
In sentiment and glee, 
And now your voice so pure and soft 
Sings one sweet song to me. 

" So here, alas, in hoary age 
My songs return to me, 
Filled with the sentiments of life 
The brooklet sings it free. 



I bow my head and listen long 
With sunken, tear-stained cheek; 

I willingly do lend my ears 

While Nature's mouth doth speak. 

Ah, what is man in middle life? 

In spring or summer old 
His tongue can never, never tell 

The tale the waters told. 

The poet's hands are folded now 

Across his quiet breast; 
No song of love or sun or shade 

Can break his peaceful rest. 



The following is only an extract from a long poem which I have given 
considerable time and labor. The poem is entitled. "The Origin and History 
of the Fading Race." 



Cbe Fall of tl>e Pueblo nation. 



Adertoe, he sought in vain 
Every mountain-top and plain 
For his fair and bhxe-eyed child — 
Gem of all the western wild. 
And he sought and sought forever 
But he found his darling never. 

Pebbles into boulders grew, 
Rivers sprang from drops of dew, 
Huge cliffs circled round the seas, 
Bushes grew to mossy trees. 
Time has revealed 'twas long ago; 
Centuries fell like flakes of snow. 



Now we scT a niifjlitv race 
Flitting round from place to place. 
In their wanderings they were led 
Where the first wild man was hred; 
Where a village it stood quiet — 
Peaceful were the farmers nigh it. 



Father, mother, all were routed — 
Through tile streets tlie savage shouted. 
All the pale and peaceful nation 
Were swept from the brow of creation 
Save one chief, who stood alone 
By their huge prophetic stone, 
In a wizard tongue did tell 
Of the fountain in the dell: 
Then he pointed to tlie lake 
Girdled by the woods and brake: — 



Numberless vour sons and daughters 
As the drops of yon blue water. 
But the paleface will come again. 
Build his cities on the plain. 
And the Indian then must fade 
In the lonely forest shade." 

177 



So, one day the stranger pale 
Marched thro' forest glade and dale, 
Rifles flashed and cannons thundered, 
Warriors perished by the hundred; 
Wagons the wild prairie crossed. 
Hunters in the woods were lost. 

As the frost melts on the pane. 
Thus the savage left the plain, 
With his spear and feathered quiver 
Slowly drifted down the river, 
And he never came again 
To his own dear native plain. 

So the people claim his lake. 
Wooded lands and mountain brake; 
Built his cottage, proudly tarried 
Where the savage maid was buried. 
Killed his antelope and deer. 
Tracked his buffalo far and near. 

Vanished the redman and his game 
And our world is not the same; 
Golden minds of useful worth 
Swept the spurious from the earth, 

178 



And our plow the sod has broke: 
Patient hands have carved the oak. 
Strung the wires, laid the keel, 
Formed the locomotive wheel; 
Played with lightning, bridled steam. 
Annalized each sparkling beam. 
And the least of all they know 
Is the redman and his woe. 

So. in brief, I've told the history 
Of a nation locked in mystery. 
Had I died and sealed my mouth — 
Last historian from the South — 
Mortal man would never know 
Of Angewild and Addertoe. 
As the sun sank in the West, 
Dropped his head upon his breast — 
Calmly, as the soft winds sighed, 
This old wrinkled warrior died. 

So at the foot of a rugged hill 
Where gushed a spring and ran a rill, 
Pensive there I laid the dead, 
Placed a tombstone o'er his head. 
And now, fond lovers, gathering flowers 
Find it in the summer hours; 

179 



Hunters, kneeling by the spring, 
View it as a sacred thing: 
Fishermen, with line and hook, 
Know it well beside the brook: 
And dear children, rambling round. 
Often sit upon his mound: 
Poets bask beneath the shade 
Of the tree where he was laid: 
Fancy moves and weaves the rhyme 
Of the Indian in his prime. 
So the warriors climbed the crest 
Of the mountains in the West. 
And sink low, as does the sun. 
With their fruitless labor done. 




I've sun^ to you " Heart Echoes,'" 
That long has* cheered mv soul, 

From childhood unto manhood, 
As fleeting seasons roll. 

The forests, lakes and rivers, 
Humanity's great throng, 

The flowers and the meadows 
Have echoed in my song. 

I've brouglit tlie mountains to \ou. 

Good sentiments and truth, 
Have shown you wrinkled faces 

And fair and rosy youth. 

May each recall sweet mem'ries 
Of past and pleasant days 

To soothe your wear\' bosoms 

And shape your rough highways. 



But now I'll sing' ''Heart Echoes" 

In a purer, fairer line, 
Not penned with mortal fingers, 

But written with hand divine: 

Let's work and wait in patience 
In this beautiful world of ours 

For the voice that calls each mortal 
To the Land of Love and Flowers. 

No eye has seen such beauties 
As the Lord has garnered there 

And never such strains of music 
Has fallen o'er lands as fair. 

And high in that upper country 

Of azure shimmering rest 
The King stands in his glory 

And welcomes each weary guest. 



THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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